


Junkie

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley on Human Blood (Supernatural), Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, M/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26024824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Blood for blood is a fair enough trade.
Relationships: Crowley (Supernatural)/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 73





	Junkie

**Author's Note:**

> Those human blood scenes in S9. You can't tell me you weren't thinking it too.

Crowley is sweet when he’s like this. It isn’t a word Sam would have ever thought to associate with him. The king of hell is many things—slick, charming, a two-faced fuck— _ sweet _ isn’t really one of them.

Except when he’s got that red in him, coursing through his veins, pulling a sweet, sappy smile to his face. He goes pliant and lank in those times, easy in his skin. He smiles up at Sam like Sam’s the finest thing he’s ever seen. No one’s looked at Sam like that for a long, long time.

Not Amelia, who loved him and needed him in equal measure, just as he loved and needed her. Amelia with her heart full of broken glass. Not Dean who looks at Sam with something wounded and limping in his eyes—too sorry and not sorry enough, and sometimes Sam can barely stand to look at him. Not Meg. Certainly not Ruby. Maybe Dean in some far-off distant time, some land obscured by the fog of memory, inaccessible so it might as well be myth, something he made up—not a place he could ever hope to get back to, because there might be a closet to Oz in their bunker, but you still can’t go home again.

Except Crowley—Crowley looks at him like that. And why shouldn’t he, when Sam’s the source of everything good. Sam’s the one with the vascular forearms, with clean veins to tap, with healing bruises littering the skin of his inner elbow, hidden places where the needle went in. Sam’s the one with the long sleeves and the locked door and the soundproofed walls of the bunker.

Blood for blood is a fair enough trade. Sam’s happy enough to let Crowley tap a vein, to sink the needle into his wrist, his arm, the pale, tender skin on the inside of his thigh. Because then, after—Sam gets what he wants.

The syringe falls to the table with a rattle, contaminated, used. Immediately forgotten in favor of more pressing matters. Crowley tips his head back with a sigh, letting it loll against the headrest of his chair. Sam taps his fingers against the tops of his jeans, impatient and trying not to show it.

Crowley picks up on it anyway, Sam knows he does. He ignores it, basking in the warm glow of his own high for a while longer. When he finally picks his head up to look at Sam, his pupils are huge and dark. Sam takes it as his cue.

He’s across the room in an instant, kneeling at Crowley’s side and so impatient. Hungry and wanting, cravings prickling against his insides like living things.

Sam picks up the knife without waiting for an invitation, uncurls one of Crowley’s arms and slices lengthwise across it. Blood rises to the surface, sticky-dark and perfumed with sulfur. Sam breathes sharply through his nose. His mouth waters.

He looks up at Crowley, and a fleeting understanding passes between them, the barest flicker of an eyelid. It’s all Sam ever needs. He goes slow, flattening his tongue and making it broad and soft. He laps at the skin inside Crowley’s arm, chasing the taste of salt and copper. He licks and licks, smearing the blood around, getting it all over his face, probably.

He’s hard in his pants already, dick stirring with interest the way it always does. There was a reason he and Ruby mostly did this in the bedroom.

Crowley gets a hand in his hair, blunt nails scratching at the thin skin of Sam’s scalp, making delicious shivers creep up his spine. He doesn’t hold Sam down—Sam would take his goddamn arm off if he so much as tried. He just cradles the back of Sam’s head, holding him lightly. The scritching, sweeping motions of his fingers seem to be for Crowley as much as they’re for Sam. More, probably. Crowley’s still a fucking demon. He seems to like the texture of it beneath his fingers, the slither and slide of strands of hair under his palm.

Sam teases himself as long as he can bear before he presses his lips to Crowley’s skin and sucks hard. The motion pulls a sound out of Crowley, a long, low hum, and Sam moans around the taste of fresh blood in his mouth. This is around the time he usually leaves his dignity by the door. He pops open the button of his jeans and works a hand inside for good measure, squeezing and kneading himself as he sucks in time, a grotesque mockery of nursing.

“Moose,” Crowley murmurs. “No one takes care of you, do they?”

The observation—and it is an observation, not an offer, or Sam would have to kill himself—is met with deafening silence.

Sam can’t talk with his mouth full—wouldn’t bother even if he could. That’s not what this is  _ about, _ and he’s angry that Crowley’s tried to drag that in here— _ care, _ whatever the fuck. Sam just makes a hard, sharp sound through his nose and pulls harder, hoping that it hurts. Crowley makes an obliging whimper, something that sounds as hurt as it does turned on, and it goads something dark in Sam.

That’s the thing about all this. Crowley’s addictions might make him softer, sweeter—something that, if not human, is certainly closer than he ever was before.

Sam’s addictions are nothing like that. Sam’s addictions make him dark and mean, tuning something cruel that he usually keeps smothered to a fever pitch. The door is locked to keep Dean out, sure. It’s also locked to keep Sam in—to keep Crowley here, with Sam. No one should let him do this.

But Crowley does because Crowley’s a fucking junkie, just like him. Crowley’s a junkie and a demon, quite possibly one of the worst people on this earth, and that makes this—not okay, but the next best thing. Harm reduction. Risk mitigation.

He drinks from Crowley until the well runs dry, until he can hear his own blood pounding in his ears, a constant drumbeat. He rocks back on his heels, panting a little, knees splayed wide.

“They’re not black,” Crowley says. “In case you were wondering.”

Sam’s left hand—the one that’s not otherwise occupied—comes up to his face, unbidden. He touches the fragile skin beneath his eye because, yes, he was wondering.

“I didn’t ask,” he says.

He hates Crowley so fucking much in these moments, but it’s not hatred that propels him to his feet. It’s not hatred that has him extending a hand, hauling Crowley to his unsteady feet just so they can topple together on a bed.

It’s something else—something that feels warm and alive, humming beneath his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> [Say hi if you wanna.](https://twitter.com/lovetincture)


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